


The Taste of Home

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Character Studies (Dragon Age) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort Food, Food, Gen, Homesickness, Val Royeaux, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: Young Josephine Montilyet on a winter's day in Val Royeaux.  The city takes some getting used to, especially for a 15-year-old who had never left Antiva.





	The Taste of Home

Val Royeaux in winter was a sight to behold. **  
**

Josephine wrapped herself in layers upon layers, hurrying through the city streets, soft leather boots leaving small footprints in the snow.  She shivered in her cloak and scarves and gloves, squinting against the wind.  Winter in Antiva City had never been so cruel.

The rainy season on Rialto Bay had been a time for reflection, for long walks along the docks when the squalls allowed, for contemplation behind a steaming copper mug of coffee.  The gulls were quieter then, muffled by the sounds of the rain sluicing into the bay, and the docks held a lonely, lovely mystery quite different from the raucous heat of summer.

Val Royeaux was a starker place during the winter months.  Its spires, grand and brilliant, shone in a mockery of sunlight: gleaming frozen gold sent the ice-limned structures aglow.  Icicles dripped like splendid jewels from eaves and balconies.  The new snow shimmered, pure and white.

It was beautiful.  It was stunning.  It was a hollow, empty land, and the Orlesians showed their appreciation of the season by hiding indoors.  She wished she had followed suit, but alas, her studies had taken her to a library on the far side of the city today.

Her feet crunched on the snow.  Ice had begun to crust it, leaving behind a firm surface that gave reluctantly beneath her steps.  Her toes felt colder than they ever had before.  Not for the first time, she wished she was at home with Mother and Father, with her brothers and sisters.

Her mother’s voice, firm and strong, rang in her ears.  “You will be our heir someday, Josephine.  We need you to learn all you can.   _Stop crying_ , mi hija.  You will love Val Royeaux.  This I promise you.”

She did love it sometimes, didn’t she?  Books in her small annexed room, towering above her on the wobbly desk; the glow of lamps when she looked out her single window at night; the chattering of different accents and tongues in her courses, languages new and glorious in her ears.  The chance to learn, ah, yes, that was something for which she would always be grateful.

But other things made her chest ache deeply, a gnawing, bitter wound.  Orlesian voices the  _only_  voices in the street, accents trilling soft and slurred until her head ached, trying to remember the sounds of home.  The way the air hung still so often, the sea winds lighter here.  The tastes of heavy cream and thick stews and underseasoned meat.  

She looked up, startled.  She did not recognize this street at all.  She straightened the scarf wrapped over her mouth, fog misting out from her nostrils.  She blinked back sudden tears.  After two months in Val Royeaux she had thought the days of getting lost around every corner were over, but the street stared back at her balefully, mocking her.  At the end of the street she could see the bay, pale winter sunlight glittering on its silver surface.  She had gotten completely turned around.

Josephine turned back around, intent on returning the way she had come, but as she did so, a heavenly scent filled the air.  Savory and rich, it struck her like a blow.  It smelled of  _home_.

She whirled, searching for the source.  There!  A little market stall tucked beneath the shadow of a tall white storefront.  She hurried to it, unsurprised to see that the shopkeeper was maskless, with dark tresses and skin the shade of her own.  

The woman gave Josephine a broad smile.  “Ah, you are looking for a taste of home, are you not?” she asked, her voice musical with an Antivan’s cadence.  

“You are still open!” exclaimed Josephine.  “On such a cold day?”

“The cold is not so bitter, after a time,” the woman said.  “I have lived here in Val Royeaux long years now.  I do what I can.”

Josephine leaned over the woman’s stall, ravenous, though it would not do for a lady to show it.  A small fire behind the woman licked at the edges of a large pot.  “Your sopa de pescado smells glorious.  I would so desire a bowl.  Please, name your price.”

“For a fellow Antivan?  Normally I would charge double,” said the woman, winking.  “But you are young, and I suspect hungry for home.  Three coppers.”

Josephine rummaged into her coinpurse, gratefully handing the woman a silver.  “Please, take the extra.  You must have so few customers today.”

The woman nodded, and quickly ladled a large portion of soup into a stiff bowl fashioned from a strange shiny leaf.  “Seheron banana leaves, out of Tevinter,” she explained. Josephine raised her eyebrow doubtfully, but the soup did not spill.  The woman gave her a flimsy wooden spoon.

“It is always good to meet another Antivan,” said the woman.  “Perhaps we will meet another time, yes?  It does get lonely here in a city of gilded masks and endless spires, does it not?”

Josephine clutched the bowl in her gloved hands, struggling to speak past the lump in her throat.  “It is a city of great beauty,” she managed.  “But it is not home.”

 

* * *

 

Josephine sat on the frozen steps at the water’s edge, huddled over the last of her soup.  It had been delicious; tender chunks of fish and shrimp and crab, swimming in a richly seasoned broth of lime juice, cayenne and spindleweed, potato and thyme.  She finished the last spoonful, letting out a contented sigh.

The harbor was quiet now.  A thin sheen of ice lay on the surface of the shallower water, and the ship-masters appeared to have left the sea to its frozen fancy.  Still, though, a gull perched resolutely near her, perhaps sensing that she had had food in her possession.  

It cocked its head to one side.  It was a different sort than those in Antiva; Antivan gulls tended to sport dashing black hoods, whereas this gull was white with a pale grey back and curious yellow eyes.

“I have nothing for you,” she said, chuckling to herself, remembering Yvette and her penchant for throwing bread to the beastly gulls in the bay back home.  The gull let out a squawk and fluttered to the next dock,apparently giving up on her.

She watched it go fondly.  The gull might not have been the same type as those back home, but clearly, it spent its time the same way, and was equally miffed at the presence of people who failed to give it food.  She smiled at the pale gull and got to her feet.  It was time to head back.  

She gave the grey harbor a final look.  She imagined Montilyet ships in the water, their sails sleek and colorful as they sailed in among the drab Orlesian ships.  What a sight they would be!  She thought of her little annex room, and her determination doubled.  She  _would_  lead her family’s estate.  How could she not?

Josephine licked her lips absently, tasting salt, herbs, fish.  Perhaps she was not so far away from home as she had thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by watching a lot of Anthony Bourdain recently, and thinking about the meaning of food in home and family.


End file.
